


The Hands That Heal

by firjii



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Early Relationship, F/M, Gen, Light Angst, Pre-Relationship, Tending Wounds, sfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 08:36:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15384924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firjii/pseuds/firjii
Summary: Zevran helps the Warden with injuries that she’s been trying to hide.





	The Hands That Heal

**Author's Note:**

> My self-indulgent attempt at wholesome Zev (because smutty Zev is fine but there's more to him than that). For general reference: only Zevran speaks in this story.

He slowly peered over his shoulder and smiled, a small but bright sort of movement. “You needn’t look so nervous. I meant exactly what I said and no more. You’d be surprised what one might learn growing up as I did. It wasn’t always – well, sometimes people were surprising. And some assassins learn a great deal about poisons and herbs. I have some useful balms that you might not have seen in a place like Denerim. You never know when a callus will get in your way, eh?”

 Her eyes darted all around the tent.

 He produced several tiny tins from a pouch and opened one. “Here, smell this.”

 She leaned forward a fraction and sniffed. She closed her eyes and considered the concoction for a moment.

 He gestured to her hands. “You’ve worn gloves for a week. That would be wise for most warriors, but your shooting has suffered for it.”

 She stared down at her hands, the twitchy veins of her fists barely visible beneath the lumpy leather.

 “In fact, no one has seen your hands _at all_ in a week.”

 Her gaze shot up to him.

 “I conferred with our comrades. Either you enjoy those gloves a great deal or something is very wrong beneath them.”

 Her shoulders compressed. Her chin trembled.

 “You hide it well, but there is no shame in tending to wounds.” He outstretched a hand, palm up, neither impatient nor wavering. “An archer’s hands are worth all the gold in Tevinter and Orlais combined. They can _save_ lives as easily as they can take them.”

 She took a cavernous breath, and then another. She nodded, though it was little more than an especially visible shudder. She unclenched her fists and reached towards him.

 He took them, though he did little more than hold them in place. “You’re shaking.”

 She nodded in a hurry.

 “Why? I already understand how you feel about flirting.” His face hardened a fraction. “I assure you on my honor, I had no intention of doing so tonight.”

 Her face paled and her eyes dashed about the tent again. 

 “But I would also hazard a guess that you’ve thought about it.”

 She glared at him, though without contempt.

 “I apologize if I offended you, but you are hardly the sort of person to forget such things in a hurry – especially when they were spoken sincerely.” 

 Her mouth weakened. She looked away and gnashed her lip. Her head fell.

 He released her hands and slowly pried her chin back up with a single finger until it was level with his again. “And I _was_ sincere.” His brow danced deliberately on each syllable.

 She closed her eyes for a moment, though by the time she opened them again, her tears had mostly receded before they’d been shed – _mostly_.

 He raised a hand on each side of her face but hesitated. She leaned into them. He slowly brushed a tear away from both cheeks.

 She let out a ragged breath, neither a sigh nor a sob but scarcely more than an inch away from either.

 He smiled, the same small but warm movement. “May I see your hands?”

 Her arms rose.

 He pulled on the gloves but frowned when she winced. “What–”

 The gloves had caught on something.

 He pulled harder.

 She cried out.

He unburdened her of the gloves, but they had taken fragments of skin with them. Nearly every corner of her hands was a raw pink – burns without scars, cuts without blood, and angry rash everywhere else, the skin perhaps too confused to know what to repair first. His gaze cycled between a dozen different thoughts, but a deep quietness settled on him above all of that. He searched for her eyes but only found two dull circles in her face. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

 She still hadn’t spoken. There was no need for words. There was no need to explain. He had seen such wounds before.

 He guided her down to a cushion, a whim of a thing he’d bought only a day earlier. She folded her legs awkwardly into herself, still shaking.

 He tended the skin slowly with the balm, touching it without touching it. “I’m sorry,” he uttered several more times – not always only for making her flinch. Gradually, the color returned to her face, neither ashen nor bloomed ruddy with grief.

 They sat there for many moments, perhaps hours, all for the sake of healing her most precious commodity.

 Well, he thought to himself, not _the_ most precious.

 

 


End file.
